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Authors: Margaret Truman
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”—and handed it to the guard.
Morizio returned to the rotunda, which had emptied out considerably. Chief Trottier was still fielding questions. George Thorpe intercepted Morizio on his way to the platform. “Anything wrong, Captain?”
“Do you know the whereabouts of Paul Pringle?”
“Pringle? Can’t say that I’ve ever heard the name.”
“He worked in security here at the embassy.”
Thorpe shook his head. “That offer of a drink still holds.”
“I have something else to do,” Morizio said.
“Lucky man. Miss Lake?”
“I don’t like you, Thorpe.”
Thorpe laughed. “Pity. A drink might bring you around.”
“I doubt it.”
Thorpe belched, ran a large hand over his mouth, glared at Morizio and said, “Congratulations.”
“For what?”
“Doing such a splendid job in this messy case. Your chief has been praising you at every turn.”
Morizio looked up at Trottier, who’d answered his final question and was about to step down, then returned his attention to Thorpe, and said, “You buying?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Where?”
Thorpe rubbed his hands together and furrowed his brow. “I’m partial to Timberlake’s.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“I’ll wait.”
After confirming dinner at Trottier’s house and getting directions to it, Morizio called his office and was connected with Connie Lake. “How’d it go?” she asked.
“Smashingly.”
“You okay?”
“Tip-top. Look, Officer Lake, get yourself wired up and join me at Timberlake’s, on Connecticut.”
“Wired?”
“Yeah, but don’t check anything out of Surveillance.Keep it simple, grab something from my apartment and be there in an hour.”
“Who are we seeing?”
“A representative of Her Majesty’s government.”
“Huh?”
“George Thorpe. He belches a lot but ignore it. Got to go. See you in an hour.”
Lake immediately left the office and drove to Morizio’s condominium in Arlington. She let herself in, went to the bedroom and opened the only one of three closets that was locked. Inside were shelves of electronic and photographic equipment—microphones of every description, including shotgun mikes, FM transmitting mikes, watches, tie tacs and earrings containing microphones; ultra-sensitive devices that picked up whispers through cinderblock walls, telephone taps, a microphone woven into a scarf and the newest addition to the collection, a subminiature microphone designed to be implanted in a tooth, provided a cooperative dentist could be found. There were recorders of varying sizes and shapes, blank tapes, miniature cameras and film, infrared lighting equipment and a video camera with a lens powerful enough to pick a bug off a branch at 500 yards. The collection represented one of Morizio’s many hobbies. Everything in the closet was available through MPD’s Surveillance Unit, but Morizio enjoyed having his own capability. Besides, anything electronic fascinated him. There was an amaranthine quality about gadgets that he felt was lacking in people, an honesty, a directness, predictability. You took care of equipment, kept it clean and serviced, and it would always be there for you, like a good dog.
Lake often kidded him about it, but over the course of their relationship she’d learned to share his appreciation of the myriad gadgets in the closet. He’d spenthours teaching her how to use and service them. Morizio was a fanatic about the care of his collection of electronic gear—batteries always removed and stored in the refrigerator, tape heads cleaned and demagnetized at prescribed intervals, tapes thoroughly erased in a bulk eraser, rewound and stored outside the machines to avoid stretching, reel-to-reel tapes stored tails-out to avoid print-through and, most important, he thoroughly checked everything before taking it on a job.
Lake chose a small Sony cassette recorder attached to a VOX switch, which meant it would record only when there was someone speaking. The
”—and handed it to the guard.
Morizio returned to the rotunda, which had emptied out considerably. Chief Trottier was still fielding questions. George Thorpe intercepted Morizio on his way to the platform. “Anything wrong, Captain?”
“Do you know the whereabouts of Paul Pringle?”
“Pringle? Can’t say that I’ve ever heard the name.”
“He worked in security here at the embassy.”
Thorpe shook his head. “That offer of a drink still holds.”
“I have something else to do,” Morizio said.
“Lucky man. Miss Lake?”
“I don’t like you, Thorpe.”
Thorpe laughed. “Pity. A drink might bring you around.”
“I doubt it.”
Thorpe belched, ran a large hand over his mouth, glared at Morizio and said, “Congratulations.”
“For what?”
“Doing such a splendid job in this messy case. Your chief has been praising you at every turn.”
Morizio looked up at Trottier, who’d answered his final question and was about to step down, then returned his attention to Thorpe, and said, “You buying?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Where?”
Thorpe rubbed his hands together and furrowed his brow. “I’m partial to Timberlake’s.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“I’ll wait.”
After confirming dinner at Trottier’s house and getting directions to it, Morizio called his office and was connected with Connie Lake. “How’d it go?” she asked.
“Smashingly.”
“You okay?”
“Tip-top. Look, Officer Lake, get yourself wired up and join me at Timberlake’s, on Connecticut.”
“Wired?”
“Yeah, but don’t check anything out of Surveillance.Keep it simple, grab something from my apartment and be there in an hour.”
“Who are we seeing?”
“A representative of Her Majesty’s government.”
“Huh?”
“George Thorpe. He belches a lot but ignore it. Got to go. See you in an hour.”
Lake immediately left the office and drove to Morizio’s condominium in Arlington. She let herself in, went to the bedroom and opened the only one of three closets that was locked. Inside were shelves of electronic and photographic equipment—microphones of every description, including shotgun mikes, FM transmitting mikes, watches, tie tacs and earrings containing microphones; ultra-sensitive devices that picked up whispers through cinderblock walls, telephone taps, a microphone woven into a scarf and the newest addition to the collection, a subminiature microphone designed to be implanted in a tooth, provided a cooperative dentist could be found. There were recorders of varying sizes and shapes, blank tapes, miniature cameras and film, infrared lighting equipment and a video camera with a lens powerful enough to pick a bug off a branch at 500 yards. The collection represented one of Morizio’s many hobbies. Everything in the closet was available through MPD’s Surveillance Unit, but Morizio enjoyed having his own capability. Besides, anything electronic fascinated him. There was an amaranthine quality about gadgets that he felt was lacking in people, an honesty, a directness, predictability. You took care of equipment, kept it clean and serviced, and it would always be there for you, like a good dog.
Lake often kidded him about it, but over the course of their relationship she’d learned to share his appreciation of the myriad gadgets in the closet. He’d spenthours teaching her how to use and service them. Morizio was a fanatic about the care of his collection of electronic gear—batteries always removed and stored in the refrigerator, tape heads cleaned and demagnetized at prescribed intervals, tapes thoroughly erased in a bulk eraser, rewound and stored outside the machines to avoid stretching, reel-to-reel tapes stored tails-out to avoid print-through and, most important, he thoroughly checked everything before taking it on a job.
Lake chose a small Sony cassette recorder attached to a VOX switch, which meant it would record only when there was someone speaking. The
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